


On Passing Ships In The Night

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a specialist shop, a Warden and an elf meet. For zyrenskistudios.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Passing Ships In The Night

 

It was a strange meeting, nobody could deny that. But the two men were strange individuals, so perhaps one should not be surprised. And for both to be present in a shop usually populated by womenfolk? The fates were moving in strange ways, all agreed on that much.

The human raises an eyebrow at the appearance of the elf, who does not seem to notice – or, possibly more accurately, is far too used to that kind of stare. Instead he concentrates on his task, browsing through the various imbued cloths and enchanted bottles. The human goes back to his mission, picking up a strangely shaped bottle covered in runes. Silently pondering its effectiveness, he tries to pronounce the ingredients list.

It is this that draws the elf's eye to him. Fenris is a regular patron here – though more often than not he is here on the behalf of Hawke or Varric, or on one memorable occasion Sebastian – simply because he understands the sounds of the Tevinter labels. Reading them is beyond him, but the elderly man who runs the shop takes great joy in speaking the words aloud on new products to the elf, who deciphers them without a thought. The import shop had seen improved business since the elf had descended on them, simply from having a better understanding of the products they were selling. However, the patrons did not always seem to ask for such guidance and continued their struggles with the foreign words alone. This appears to be the case for the man holding the heavy bottle, mouthing in broken Tevinter.

“Rejuvenate.” The elf's voice breaks the gloom in the shop, and the man turns.

“Excuse me?”

“It means rejuvenate.”

The man frowns – not out of annoyance at the interruption, but out of confusion. “Oh.”

“Not what you were looking for, I assume.”

“Mm, probably not.” He places the bottle back on the shelf with a wary eye. “Let me guess – this is not for rejuvenating dull and lifeless armour...”

The elf snorts. “A correct assumption. Cleaning products are on that wall over there.” He gestures to where he had been previously, and the man chuckles.

“Right. Serves me right for coming all the way to Kirkwall for something to polish silverite with.” He extends a hand out. “Alistair, by the way, and thanks. Mind helping me out for a little longer?”

“Fenris.” He takes the man's hand and shakes very briefly. “Tell me – how is Ferelden faring? I have... friends who hail from there.”

“Recovering. The Queen is doing the best she can, but it's a slow process.” He grimaces for a moment. “The Blight... stuck around for a while. Pockets of darkspawn in small villages, that sort of thing. Some will never recover. But the people endure.”

Fenris nods, filing the information away for later conversations with Hawke, before pointing at a selection of bottles and jars. “These are especially suitable for metals, and these for leathers.”

“Leathers, huh...” He picks up the salve, smiling slightly.

“You don't look the type.”

“Oh, I'm not, but I know a woman who would benefit.” He stops for a moment, before holding a hand up in defence. “That... came out wrong.”

As a pair of women titter behind them, Fenris claps a hand on his back. “I think, my friend, that much was obvious.”

 

 

The unlikely pair spend the evening in a local inn – not the Hanged Man, that is Fenris' insistence, but a tiny out-of-the-way place that is only clean because of the lack of people inside. The fire is warm, however, and the wine drinkable. Alistair seems more comfortable with fewer people around to gawp, and the ale agrees well with him. The talk soon turns to the strong women in their lives, and the smiles are abundant.

“She's dedicated. Driven. I think that was part of the reason we all flocked to her.” The Warden smiles wryly. “She gave us all a purpose, and kept us from falling apart in the worst storms.”

“Sounds familiar,” rumbles the elf, regarding his glass. “Never thought I would work side by side with mages, but... Marian has a way with people.”

“She certainly does, from the sounds of it. Champion.” He tries out the title. “It's a fine title.”

“Never call her that to her face,” warns Fenris. “It does not sit well with her.”

“Mm, I can see why. She likes to help, but doesn't want the pomp and ceremony that comes along with the victories. I can relate to that.”

“Do Wardens often avoid the accolades given to them?”

Alistair chuckles. “I do. More than most, I think. We try and let go of our former lives when we take the Grey, though it is rarely as simple as it sounds. In my case it was impossible, but I suppose they were... extreme circumstances.”

“During the Blight, I assume.” The elf leans forward, interested. “I did not hear many tales until I reached Kirkwall, but the odds sounded... impossible.”

“They were,” he says, taking in a deep breath. “More than impossible. Two Grey Wardens and barely enough men to constitute a division, never mind an army. We had lost so many at Ostagar, even Eamon's forces could never make up for that. But we had the forces bound by treaties too, and they proved invaluable in the end. In a way I had hoped it would be... I don't know, some sort of turning point. But things aren't quite that perfect, I guess.”

“They rarely are.”

“I suppose you've had your fill of changing political quagmires here.”

“Yes, but Hawke likes to stay out of the middle of the storm.”

“Lucky.” It is barely muttered into the drink, but the elf catches it nonetheless, head tilted in curiosity. “Oh. I, ah... I wasn't given much choice, in the Blight. A nation without a king, and...” He swallows. “As the bastard son, I was the perfect replacement.”

The elf raises a single eyebrow. “I see.”

“Luckily for me – and for Ferelden – we had Faylen and Ano- I mean, Queen Anora. The right decision was made.” He grins. “After all, you saw me back in that shop.”

“Indeed.” The wry smile returns at the very idea of this man leading a nation. “But then again, the power behind the throne...”

“Faylen wouldn't be like that,” he dismisses. “She has enough on her plate with the Grey Wardens, especially after the Amaranthine mess. Besides, she believes in the integrity of a man standing on his own two feet. True, there's nothing wrong with admitting when you need help, but being a puppet king... no. That's not her style.”

“An honourable woman indeed.”

 

 

They are well into their cups when Fenris admits the truth.

“She is... not... mine,” he says, regret lacing every word. The man who could have been king leans forward, head tilted in curiosity.

“She's with someone else?”

“No, no. Just...”

“She doesn't like you?”

“No. Well... I do not know any longer. We don't talk about it.”

“Hang on.” He puts his drink down, brow furrowing deeply. “So she liked you definitely, and you liked her... and you're not together and you don't talk about it.” He raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I... did not handle a situation well.” He shifts in his seat slightly, the guilt from that night

still weighing heavily on his shoulders. “I may have driven her away out of fear.”

“Okay. Okay, that's a given, I mean a broody guy like you comes with a past, right?” He

ignores the look. “She must have known about that, and known it was a possibility, right?”

“I... suppose.”

“So just go and tell her it's all better!”

“It's not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“This was... three years ago.”

The silence hangs heavy, like a mabari's flatulence. Alistair's jaw drops. “You’ve left her hanging for THREE YEARS?”

“It was... complicated.” His ears twitch in annoyance, but he does not meet the man's eyes.

“What in the name of the Maker are you doing sitting here with me, then?” he continues. “Go and talk to her!”

“No, it's not -”

“This is not an option.” Alistair stands, pulling at the elf's arm. Ignoring his complaints, he glares at him. “Listen to a man who almost didn't make that move. Once upon a time, Faylen loved one of her kin who died a horrible and heartbreaking death, and part of me almost let her go in her grief. Life is too short, Fenris, to mourn the past and lose yourself to mistakes. Complicated or not, you can't spend the rest of it regretting what you lost because you never found the time to make it right. You've had three years – three whole _years_ – without each other. You live your lives on the edge and you throw yourselves into battle without a thought, _anything_ to avoid confronting responsibilities to the real world. You could lose her tomorrow.” Fenris flinches at that thought, and Alistair tightens his grip slightly. “Go to her. Now.”

“But -”

“Now.”

“Alistair.” The name is snarled as the elf wrenches his arm free, straightening himself to his full height to meet the man's gaze. The pause lingers. “Thank you.”

The man smiles wryly. “Least I could do after you stopped me buying questionable Tevinter potions. I hope we meet again – and I wish you the best of luck.”

The elf bows slightly, the smile brief as he heads out into the night in search of his Marian.

Alistair chuckles as he settles back down into his chair. From the shadows, a soft hand runs over his shoulder before its owner claims the now-vacant seat with a huge smile.

“Well said, my darling bastard,” purrs Isabela.

“Does this make us even now?” he asks, and sighs, relieved as she nods. “Thank the Maker. Faylen still says you cheated, by the way, so it shouldn't even count.”

“And yet you came running anyway.”

“Oh, you know me. Any excuse to visit,” he drawls, and she chuckles, throwing him a wrapped package.

“For your girl, as a thank you for letting you come and play.”

“Oh, trust me. I'll be stuck polishing armour for a week as punishment for escaping yet another spring-cleaning spree. That'll be all the thanks she needs.” He finishes his drink and stands, smiling as he leans over to kiss her cheek. “Good to see you again, 'Bela. Don't be a stranger, alright?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “You'll see me again before long, I'm sure. Now go, before I convince you to stay.” She winks and he laughs, waving once before taking his leave.


End file.
